


Saving Wade Wilson

by I_touch_the_walls



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: "it was pretty much 24/7 ball gags brownie mix and clown porn", Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Spider-Man, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gay Peter Parker, Gen, High School, Human Wade Wilson, Kind of Canon Compliant, M/M, Mutual Pining, Next Door Neighbors, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pansexual Wade Wilson, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Wade Wilson, Same Age, Slow Burn, Spider-Man Interacting with New Yorkers, Spider-Man Kiss, Spideypool - Freeform, Swearing, Tags May Change, Teen Peter Parker, Teen Wade Wilson, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, Wade the-boy-next-door-is-kind-of-cute Wilson, crush on the kid next door, no super young peter and much older wade here thanks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-05-14 02:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14761248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_touch_the_walls/pseuds/I_touch_the_walls
Summary: ((BEING REWRITTEN))"It's almost nostalgic to stare at Wade and point out all the things he's seen over and over again and to bear witness to the change of the little boy in his memory to the young man beside him. His eyes are hazel, he's always tired, his shirts are worn out, his hair is sandy; its always been that way. But now he's shaving, and there's muscle underneath the shirt, there's a sturdy presence in the shape of his shoulders. Peter wonders if Wade can see that change in him too, if Peter's nostalgia is a shared experience."Peter Parker and Wade Wilson have been next door neighbors and friends for years. But things change as they get older, and a chance trip to a science lab changes Peter's life forever.





	1. Part One - Nostalgia (REWRITTEN)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's almost nostalgic to stare at Wade and point out all the things he's seen over and over again and to bear witness to the change of the little boy in his memory to the young man beside him. His eyes are hazel, he's always tired, his shirts are worn out, his hair is sandy; its always been that way. But now he's shaving, and there's muscle underneath the shirt, there's a sturdy presence in the shape of his shoulders. Peter wonders if Wade can see that change in him too, if Peter's nostalgia is a shared experience."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the rewritten chapter.

Peter Parker wouldn't define Chemistry class as particularly dangerous. It was fairly simple. Listen to the teacher, take notes, follow the labeled instructions. It seemed more that Peter Parker's body was an instrument for attracting danger, even in the most secure of environments. It turns Chemistry class into a war ground.

The bell is due to ring any minute, and Peter can't wait much longer than that. His legs are shaking like leaves, and his right one is bouncing up and down in time with the racing beat of his heart; he's not hearing anything his teacher is saying. His eyes are fixed on the clock right above the teacher's head, his hand gripping the strap of his backpack painfully tight. His breath is shallow, bated in anticipation of the bell; a minute has never been this long.

But it rings, as it always does every day at the same hour, and Peter is out of his seat before the second toll of the bell, flying down the hallways. He's pushing passed classmates who huff or grumble or make any other verbalized sounds of irritation, but he doesn't stop, not even when he hears the shout of a teacher's voice telling him there's no running allowed in the hallway. He's racing passed Harry Osborn, who clips his name, but Peter doesn't stop, can't stop; stopping for a friend isn't worth being caught.

If he's lucky, and he wishes today is that lucky day with all his heart, he might be able to make it to his next class, to feign feeling sick, convince the teacher to let him see the nurse, and get picked up for a shortened school day. Missing his AP English class would be worth missing the last ten minutes of the chaotic cluster of students rushing to their lockers and buses, the kind of distraction that someone could take advantage of. But Peter isn't usually lucky, at least not when it comes to avoiding danger, and he'd think himself a masochist if it wasn't for his sprinting and his heaving lungs, trying to escape whatever punishment lay in front of him.

He feels a strong grip on his backpack, and he lurches forward, his hopes plummeting with the fall of his stomach, His feet are slipping out underneath him, he can feel the worn rubber soles of his shoes scrapping against the floor, and he's panicking, trying to gain purchase before he falls, but the hand on his backpack keeps him from crashing in a heap, and the straps dig into his armpits. His stomach finally returns to him, but it's ice cold, adrenaline pumping through it like it's trying to kill him before anyone else can.

"Hey, Puny Parker," there's heat curling on the back of his neck, and there's flecks of warm spit to accompany it from the mouth that's too close to his head.

Peter's legs are still shaking.

***

"Jesus Christ," a familiar voice blurts out in awe. "What the hell happened to you?"

Peter looks up from where he's been burying this head in his arms. Warmth at the familiarity of the voice fills his stomach before he let's the dull cold of his own disappointment refill it.

He'd been sent home from school with a blooming black eye and a bleeding nose, and he'd sworn to the nurse that it was just a bad fall down the stairs, that he was stupid enough to take a dare to ride his skateboard down it. He doesn't think she believed him, but he was sent home under that premise anyway. But his walk home was met with a locked door, and he'd lost his house key a week ago when the contents of his backpack has been flushed down the school's second floor boys' bathroom. He'd have to wait on the porch steps for someone to return home.

"Hey, Wade," Peter replies. The name is warm on his tongue despite his dejected tone, and he wants to say it again, just for the gratification of saying something that carries no implication or danger behind it.

"Hey, Petey-Pete," Wade says back. His backpack is hanging low on his back, and it rides up as he moves to sit on the stairs beside Peter. "So, give it to me. Did you fall down the stairs again? Slip in the bathroom? Hit your head against the sink?"

He sighs, looking away from Wade to rest is chin on his arms folded over the curl of his legs. He knows Wade's teasing, knows he wants the truth, and Peter knows Wade's the only person he's going to tell. "I spilled Sodium hydroxide on Flash's new sports pants; Y'know, the really good kind that only real athletes wear. I think he said they're professional."

"What the fuck is that?" is Wade's response, but it's not aggressive and not mean, just an exclamation. Wade flings words at things like that's all words are meant for.

"Sports pants?" Peter purposefully misinterprets the question. "Probably something you wear when you play sports."

"Not that, asshat," there's a hint of a grin on the corner of Wade's lips. "The Sodium hydroxide. I'm not in Chemistry, remember?"

"Oh, _that_ ," he says, with a sudden, forced understanding in his words. "It's just lye. You can mix it with some other compounds to make soap."

"So," Wade presses him. "What were you doing with a soap ingredient in the proximity of Flash Thompson?"

Peter frowns, thinking back on the events that led up to his fateful afternoon. "The teacher paired us together."

"Yikes," he drawls. "Is the teacher new or something? I thought everyone knew to keep you guys separated after last year?"

"Yeah, he's new," Peter confirms. "I'm sure news will get around in the teachers' lounge though, now. I doubt it'll happen again."

They fall silent for a moment, maybe only a second, but he can feel Wade looking at his face, his eyes darting from one injury to another like an examination, and then he's saying, "want me to beat him up? It'll be fun."

His voice makes it sound like a joke, his smirk sarcastic, his leaning in feigned excitement, but Peter can hear the static readiness buzzing in his ears, knows that Wade's sarcasm is seriousness, and all Peter has to say is yes, and Wade will draft up a plan, his form of ultimate revenge after all the years of being told no.

"No, thanks," he says lightheartedly, again, like always. He wonders if there will be a day that he doesn't say no.

Wade's leaning back, his face drawing into complain as he replies, "too bad, I'd love to give that fucker a real number."

"Sure, and get suspended."

"So? Worth it."

"If you say so."

"I do say so."

The conversation dies, and they're left in companionable silence, familiar with the years of studying, playing video games, and running around the neighborhood together. Peter can't help the drifting of his gaze to watching Wade out of the corner of his eye. He's slouching against the porch steps, casual and comfortable like he could stay there all evening, and he's staring out into the street with empty eyes; something must be on his mind. Peter wishes he has the gall to break the silence and ask, but the very idea of speaking something personal into the warm air between them is enough to make him sweat, so he stops considering the idea. Instead, his eyes move down to Wade's long-sleeve shirt, the collar stretched out and soft from years of use. There's faint bags under his eyes and barely-there stubble on his chin that Peter suspects will be shaved off tonight.

It's almost nostalgic to stare at Wade and point out all the things he's seen over and over again and to bear witness to the change of the little boy in his memory to the young man beside him. His eyes are hazel, he's always tired, his shirts are worn out, his hair is sandy; its always been that way. But now he's shaving, and there's muscle underneath the shirt, there's a sturdy presence in the shape of his shoulders. Peter wonders if Wade can see that change in him too, if Peter's nostalgia is a shared experience.

But, suddenly, Wade looks over at him, and Peter flinches, the fear and embarrassment of being caught running his face red.

"Are you, uh, going on the...the Biology field-trip to the lab?" he blusters, calling up whatever distraction he can think of.

"Huh?" Wade looks bewildered, as if he's just waking up. "Oh, nah. I'm not really into the whole science thing. I'll probably take the free Bio block to collect some job applications. Wait--Peter, doesn't that mean your taking two science classes this year?"

"Oh, uh, yeah. AP Biology and Chemistry, since it's required," he answers. "So you're going to start looking for a job? That's exciting! I should probably start looking too..."

Wade gives him a strange look, as if the idea of such a class schedule is ridiculous. "You're really somethin' else. But yeah, I'm job hunting, I guess. More to get out of the house than because I want to work with anyone. But having money sounds good."

"Yeah, it does," Peter responds wistfully, the idea of having his own money to spend infiltrating his thoughts briefly before he catches the familiar rumble of a car engine and looks up to watch a beige Cadillac STS roll slowly into the driveway.

A middle aged couple open the doors to the car and make their way to the trunk to reveal a pile of grocery bags. Wade rises from the porch, followed by Peter, and approaches the car.

"Need any help, Mrs. Parker?" he asks mid-walk.

"No, I think Peter will be able to help us just fine--" the woman, May Parker, looks up to smile at Wade, but her eyes land on Peter, and her mouth drops. "Peter! What did you do to your face?"

"It's nothing, Aunt May," he tells her, rushing the words. "Someone dared me to ride my skateboard down the stairs, that's all."

"And you listened to them?" her words are sharp with a reprimand, hands on her hips.

"I mean--"

"The boy's a boy, May," the man interrupts, walking passed with hands full of grocery bags. "We all make dumb decisions."

"Ben," Aunt May starts. "He's going to kill himself one day, behaving like that."

"Well then," Uncle Ben looks back to state teasingly. "Natural selection is coming for him."

Aunt May huffs at Uncle Ben's back as he unlocks the house door before turning to Wade. "Will you stay for dinner, Dear? We're having roast beef, so there's definitely going to be too much."

"No, thanks, Mrs. Parker," Wade replies nonchalantly. "My uncle will want me to have dinner with him tonight. Monday nights are family dinners. I appreciate it though."

"Of course, any time," she says sweetly to him. She then looks at Peter and says sternly, "get inside so I can clean that face up."

"Aunt May, I can do it myself--" Peter starts off with a complaint.

"No arguing. Inside," she ushers him inside, leaving no room for complaints or escape.

As Peter nears the front door, he turns back to glance at Wade, his mouth open on a "see you" when his face collides with the door post, pain running flush against his cheekbone. He hears Wade cackle, and his aunt sigh in exasperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my previous readers, dear God! I've taken for ever to update this fic! And it's not even a real update, it's a rewrite of a chapter...I'm sorry to make you guys wait so long! School is going to kill me, but it's fun (for right now). I have an internship too (crazy), but it eats up a lot of my time, so I'm not going to be able to update regularly. If you still keep reading this through the rewrite and all the long periods between updates, know that I would die for you.
> 
> To all my new readers, I'm rewriting this fic because I'm not satisfied with what I'd started a couple months ago. But I am really glad you chose this fic to read and would be thrilled if you stuck with it through the rewrite and through the chapters that have yet to be written at all! I'm super busy, so you guys should know that my updates are going to be very far a part from each other.
> 
> This can be confusing info to some people, so feel free to contact me if you still have questions!
> 
> You can also receive updates on this [Tumblr account](https://i-touch-the-walls.tumblr.com) that I made specifically for my fan fiction. It has all my updates, aesthetics, and recommendations on it, so feel free to check it out.


	2. Bitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was an immense framework of steel and glass. It towered over every other skyscraper, 108 floors of glittering, tinted windows and people in pressed, white lab coats walking importantly in and out of the two double doors. There were clipboards and badges and shined shoes and meaningful muttering, and Peter could just make out the escalators from inside the building from where he stood outside. Oscorp stood out in clear letters down the side of the structure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catch my Stan Lee cameo

Peter grumbled into his worn out blankets curled and stuffed around him like a red and yellow threaded cloud. He squinted against the bright light of his phone, and slid the lock screen open to silence the pounding of his alarm. His room suddenly and pleasantly silenced, he leaned back against his pillow, blindly and single-handedly searched his desk for the familiar shape of his glasses. When his hands closed around them and sloppily pushed them to sit on the bridge of his nose, Peter reviewed his glowing phone screen before stumbling out of bed with a start.

He hastily abandoned his faded pajamas for a pair of denim jeans and a logo T-shirt he'd received from a science fair nearly a year ago; a couple swipes of his hand through his hair, and he was pounding down the stairs of the small town home.

"You're up early, Peter," Aunt May said in way of a greeting as Peter appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Not up early, just ready early," he opened the fridge and peered in eagerly. "Do we have anymore cereal?"

"Yes, but just the wheat kind. I'm not buying the sugar stuff anymore. It hard on your uncle's stomach, and it's no good for children," she poured two glasses of orange juice and pushed one of them into Peter's hands before moving passed to place the carton in the fridge.

"A health kick?" he asked, but, before he could receive an answer, Uncle Ben brushed passed him as he entered the kitchen.

"What's got you movin' around so early, Peter?" Uncle Ben commented, his smile too bright and pleasant for the hour.

He set his orange juice on the small, worn out table before opening the cupboards in search of the wheat cereal Aunt May had mentioned. "The biology field trip is today. We leave as soon as class starts."

Uncle Ben huffed out genially, "well then, you better eat fast. Lord knows you barely make it on time any other day."

"Trying to," Peter replied, having found the cereal and pouring a large bowl. Milk went in next, and a spoon dived in; he took a heaping bite before grabbing the bowl and orange juice and taking to the stairs.

"You better make sure to pack your lunch!" Aunt May told him before he could completely disappear from sight.

"You got it, Aunt May," Peter shouted back, still climbing the stairs to the privacy of his bedroom.

"And bring that bowl back when you're done!"

"Uh huh!"

"And your laundry with it!"

He hollered one last "okay!" before closing his door on the noise from downstairs.

***

Despite his early start, Peter was racing down the sidewalk, his bike wheels jumping up at every crack in the concrete. He was so close to being late he could see the buses filled with his classmates talking and laughing. He pedaled swiftly across the crosswalk and through the school lawn, barely sliding off the seat of his bike before it ran into the bike rack. Chest out and hands on the straps of his backpack, he jogged over to the teacher standing stiffly by the school bus's open door, looking down at a clipboard.

"You're late, Peter," the teacher greeted him dryly.

"Thanks for hangin' around, Mr. Smith," Peter responded lightly, bouncing up the bus stairs; he counted his lucky stars that his AP Bio teacher liked him. And then quickly stopped as his looked down the bus aisle.

No one was paying much attention to him, talking to each other, passing around food and gum and phones. But the bus was filled to the brim with students, their legs sticking out into the aisle as they laughed with each other, and the autumn air was thick with their overheated energy. He couldn't find any friendly faces, just the blurred out ones that cheered on the sidelines of a fight. He stumbled over a backpack sticking out in the walkway, only just able to catch himself on the seat; he heard someone giggle behind him as they moved the bag out of the way.

"Peter, take a seat!" Mr. Smith said sharply, and Peter nearly fell into the first open seat he found, right next to a boy wearing headphones with the noise up too loud, completely focused on the video game that had to be using up too much of his phone battery and was taking up way too much of his fair share of the seat.

 _Could be worse_ , Peter thought dejectedly. _Could be Flash._

***

The bus ride was long, it smelled, and Peter could hear every shout and gunfire emitting from his seat-mate's headphones. The wizened bus driver had nearly taken out three mailboxes and a number of trashcans, and Peter was thankful that he hadn't found a seat in the back of the bus as he'd planned--the whipping around corners and going twenty miles over the speed limit probably would've made him feel sick from all the way back there.

He let out a sigh of relief as he stepped off of the school bus and inhaled his first breath of fresh air in over half an hour, but the air rushed out of him before he could completely fill his lungs.

His neck craned skyward as he stood in front of a glistening building of intense knowledge and brain power.

It was an immense framework of steel and glass. It towered over every other skyscraper, 108 floors of glittering, tinted windows and people in pressed, white lab coats walking importantly in and out of the two double doors. There were clipboards and badges and shined shoes and meaningful muttering, and Peter could just make out the escalators from inside the building from where he stood outside. _Oscorp_ stood out in clear letters down the side of the structure.

Peter was standing in front of the world's leading research facility on molecular biology and genetics; t _he world's leading research facility_. Peter inhaled sharply and grinned. This might just be the best day of his life.

"Alright, everyone circle up," Mr. Smith said loudly, sounding weary. The students jumble around him, falling silent. "For today's activities, you need to find a partner--only two per group!--and come pick up these packets to fill out along the way."

Peter groaned inwardly. Of course, on the day they needed partners, he didn't have a friend. Wade Wilson was probably somewhere far away job hunting, and Harry Osborn's father happened to be the CEO of _Oscorp_ , so, naturally, Harry wasn't particularly interested in attending a school field trip to his father's workplace, which left Peter alone, uncomfortably shifting his gaze around to find an unlucky student like himself that had no choice but to partner with a near stranger.

"Hey, uh, do you need a partner?" he started and craned his neck around awkwardly. Beside him stood a nondescript girl smiling surely at him. Her brown bob cut and wide eyes seemed incredibly familiar.

"Uh...Elizabeth, right?" Peter turned towards her, shifting anxiously and smiling back. Now probably wasn't the time to be stuttering, but he was.

"You can call me Betty," she responded, extending a few sheets of paper. "This is our assignment. I went ahead and got it from Mr. Smith." Betty glanced at Peter's face, and she seemed to hesitate. "I'm from--we take English together. Sorry, uh, you looked like you needed a partner--"

"No, it's cool! English? With Ms. Barnes?" Peter grinned nervously and took the papers from her. "You sit in the front, don't you?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "And you're Peter? You sit in the back? With the skateboard?"

He laughed. "Yeah, that's me."

Betty smiled, her lips pressing together and her eyes were bright.

But, before she could say anything, one of the important looking people split from the sea of other _Oscorp_ associates and collected the group of high school students together. Everyone crowded around whispering and hushing each other.

"Welcome to _Oscorp_ ," the woman greeted them loudly, cradling an electronic clipboard. Peter felt his heart give an excited leap. "My name is Ms. Giovanni, and I'll be your guide for today. If you stick together and follow me, we'll all have a brilliant and pleasant afternoon. If you don't, well, you'll most likely find yourself sitting in the bus for the next seven hours. Now walk with me."

There were a few chuckles from his classmates as everyone eagerly pursued her.

"Here at _Oscorp_ , we study chemistry, molecular biology, genetics, electrical engineering, defense, and weaponry," Ms. Giovanni led them through the front double doors, talking over her shoulder. "Here at _Oscorp_ , we invent the future."

There was a collective sharp inhale as each student entered the building. The escalators were even larger than Peter thought, scaling floors upon floors, crossing over glass bridges. Everything had a blue-and-gray tint to it, and white lab coats moved about in skillful harmony. A hologram of a woman's face played in the center of the building, right in front of an elevator.

"Altering the future, from the cell to the superstructure," it said with a smile before it morphed into the _Oscorp_ Industries logo.

"We'll be sampling every group today, so make sure to pay attention," the corners of Ms. Giovanni's lips quirked up. "And I understand that your teachers have assigned you work to do along the way; there will be time made for you to complete that."

Peter buzzed with interest and excitement. Usually, he felt like such a loser for being so thrilled by science--he didn't know anyone else who cared for it the same way he did--but here, here he felt like everyone just wanted to know, to find out more about science and to keep discovering. This was the dream place, he decided, this was the end goal.

"Calm down there, Big Guy," Betty whispered to him. Peter laughed under his breath when he caught her teasing smile. "It looks like you're about to jump out a window."

"What can I say? I like science," he responded half-joking.

"I can tell."

"Thanks."

Betty turned away to look at Ms. Giovanni, hiding a giggle.

"Through these doors you'll be receiving a firsthand experience on how our engineers create their prototypes..."

***

"Can I take your photo next to the hologram?" Peter bent down and set his backpack on the ground, pulling a camera out.

The students had just been released for lunch, giving them free access to the first floor of _Oscorp_ , which consisted of the lobby, restrooms, and the cafeteria. They were strictly forbidden to use the elevator or escalators without explicit permission.

Betty watched his camera wearily.

"I'm taking the yearbook class," Peter explained briefly. "They want me to take a couple shots of _Oscorp_ since this is the first year Midtown High has been allowed to visit."

"Alright then," she conceded. "But just a few."

"Thanks. Can you move to stand right beside the hologram? Great," he paused and closed one eye, letting the shutter click a few times before adjusting the light settings on his camera and taking a few more photos. He watched her image come into focus and snapped another one. "All done. I really appreciate it."

Betty broke her pose and walked over the the bench they had previously claimed when lunch hour was called. "No problem. What else are you going to take pictures of?"

Peter sat down beside her, sliding his camera around his neck and pulling out the brown paper bag lunch his aunt had badgered him into making. "Definitely something with the molecular biology," he told her. "And maybe some of the genetics. All I really need is some stuff that looks cool so I'll get a good grade."

"Ugh, the genetics," she picked uncomfortably at her sandwich. "We're going back there?"

"Yeah, since lunch broke that part of our tour in half," he bit into a carrot and narrowed his eyes at her in concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Betty slumped her shoulders. "But it just bothers me a bit that they lost one of the spiders in their lab. I mean, they were setting the specimen out for our visit, how could they just lose track of their science experiment? It's making me really nervous."

"I guess it doesn't help much that all the specimen were poisonous."

"Thanks, Peter," she said dryly.

Peter kept eating. "Did you know that some spider bites can cause red blood cells to burst?"

"That's disgusting. And you're not helping."

"And spiders don't have teeth, so they inject digestive juices into their meal and suck out their innards."

"Oh my God."

"Some spiders can run up walls because their feet are covered in tiny hairs that grip the surface, but they can't get out of bathtubs because the sides are too slippery."

Betty laughed, "why do you know all this?"

Peter shrugged. "I did a science project on them in eighth grade."

"And you remember all that?"

"My dad studied spiders, so I guess I just followed that," Peter said nonchalantly. “Maybe it runs in the family.”

She shook her head and laughed again. "Are you like this with everything?"

"Like what?"

"Like, I don't know, like super smart, I guess?"

"Um," Peter rolled a carrot around in his fingers. He wasn't sure how to answer without sounding narcissistic or uncomfortably nerdy. "Sure...I mean, I'm not very good at English. I don't really understand poetry. And I suck at gym."

Betty opened her mouth to say something, but the sound that came out was a rough and deep snorting. Peter blinked back at Betty’s startled face before turning to look behind him for the culprit.

"Oh," he said disappointingly, his stomach sinking the the basement where _Oscorp_ kept the weapon testing. "Hi, Flash."

" 'Hi, Flash,' " Flash parroted him in a high pitched voice, grinning meanly. He was flanked by a couple other basketball players laughing at Flash's joke. Peter had long since accepted the cliche. "Talkin' up a girl with your science brain, Parker? And here I thought that Brant had standards."

Brant must've been Betty's last name because her face flared red with anger, matching her lipstick.

"Go away, Flash," Peter tried to sound bored. Despite the damage it did to his ego, it usually helped when he was being followed in the hallways.

"How 'bout you go away, Parker?" he crowed.

Peter watched him laugh, fingers digging nervously at the wooden bench. "Real clever."

Flash turned on Betty instead. "Come on, Brant. You're nice looking. What're you doing with this twink? You don't feel bad for him or somethin', do you?"

Peter had a sudden image of Wade laughing at Flash using the word 'twink' before Betty spoke up, invoking a bubbling of laughter in his stomach. Maybe he ought to tell him about it.

"Peter's nice looking too! And he's smart! I don't feel bad for him!" she clenched her jaw. It wasn't a particularly strong defense, but it had Peter's ears turning red from the unexpected compliments, and he wanted to say something to help her, but it seemed like a lost cause against Flash.

As Flash went in for another jab, Mr. Smith appeared as if on command, calling Flash's name. He looked irritated and huffed before turning his back on Peter and Betty like the saint he was.

"Bye, Flash," Peter shot over his shoulder as Flash retreated with Mr. Smith, most likely to be reprimanded for disruptive behavior. Flash flipped him the bird. "Ow!" Peter smacked the back of his neck. Betty jumped.

"Is something wrong?" she leaned towards him, concern heavy in her voice.

"Nah," he pressed a finger to the back of his neck and winced. It felt like a bruise. "I'm fine."

She looked at him suspiciously but went back to her lunch. "What a dick."

"What?"

"Flash, He's an jerk."

“Oh, yeah..." Peter turned back around but didn't see him. Even though that was technically a win, he still felt like a loser.

***

Peter groaned and yanked his bike through the door; the damn wheels were catching on everything, and he just wanted to be inside, in his bedroom, warm and with food. His stomach swirled. Maybe without food then.

"Peter, is that you?"

"Yeah," he croaked out, leaning his bike on the wall.

Aunt May appeared from the dining room. "Oh, you sound awful!"

"Thanks..."

She put her hands on his face, her fingers felt like ice compared to his melting skin. "And you're burning! You haven't caught a cold already, have you?"

"I dunno," he slurred out, resting his weight on the stair rails. "Can I go to bed?"

"Yes, yes," she said almost fussily, pushing him up the stairs. "Go lay in bed, and I'll get you some water and medicine. Go lay down!"

"I'm on it, I'm on it," Peter stumbled up the stairs once Aunt May had disappeared into the kitchen.

The world was slipping out of focus as he climbed the stairs, rushing sickeningly back into focus when he began to fall. The flower-patterned rug swirled beneath him, the off-color flowers danced under his feet, and he shuddered. He tipped over and crashed into the wall, sliding along it until he reached his bedroom and lurched face first onto his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys...! Finally, another update after what? Two months? I've been so whipped lately that I have no inspiration to write...! I'm seriously sorry for having you guys wait so long. Then again, this is just the rewrite, so no new chapters...One day!
> 
> To my new readers: fun fact, I suck at updating! :) But I'm so, so happy you've chosen to read this fic! Since I'm rewriting, I do not recommend reading after this chapter since those chapters haven't been rewritten and are still pretty gross. If this is confusing, just message me and I'll try to explain better!
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading!
> 
> ***
> 
> So, some further explanation for Peter's character since there's a couple different 'styles' with the actors, I guess. This fic is sort of a hybrid between all the movie versions (Maguire, Garfield, Holland). Wade (instead of Mary-Jane) lives next door to Peter like in the Maguire movies, and he has more of Garfield's Peter's personality (the quick quips but also the anxiety when he doesn't have the mask on), and it's set in the 21st century. Not sure yet if Ned, MJ, or Gwen will be in this, I guess I'll add them as I go, haha!
> 
> As for Wade, he's pretty much the young version described by Ryan Reynolds' Deadpool. He's not yet super confident in himself, but he's not a bad fighter, and he's a whole boy of sass.


	3. Chapter Three: Pretty Sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about being late, guys! I had an end-of-year art project I needed to get done and a couple exams that pushed off me writing this chapter. But here it is!

Everything felt wrong. Correction; it didn't feel wrong, it _was_ wrong.

Every little bump in the carpet, every thin line of the stacks of papers sitting on his desk, the flutter of his blinds with every gust of wind coming through his open window, the dust motes in the air, the spider crawling along one of his skateboards; he could see it, he could feel it. He was so aware of it.

He felt sick.

***

He could tell his aunt was outside the door before she knocked. There was another issue. Why could he tell?

"Peter, you need to eat!" she called through the door. "You can't stay locked in your room all day! We agreed to let you stay home today, so please come out."

Peter watched the door but didn't respond.

He heard her sigh. "I'm leaving your lunch here."

He heard her gently set a paper plate down on the carpet at the foot of his bedroom door.  _He heard a paper plate on carpet from yards away._ Peter curled into himself.

***

Everything was dangerous. It was like giant warning sirens going off in his head every time he looked at something.

He glanced at his homework that sat by his backpack. _Paper cuts!_

His eyes traveled to the skateboard leaning on the wall. _Fall and break a bone!_

A breeze blew in from his open window. _Fall and break a neck!_

He watched sunlight dance on his carpet. _Germs!_

Peter whimpered and pulled the blanket tighter around himself from where is sat on his head and cocooned him. _It could twist and break a bone if caught up in it when standing!_

He heard heavy footsteps outside his door, and he recognized it as his uncle.

"Hey, Pete, you awake in there?" Uncle Ben's voice pushed passed the door. "It's dinner time, and your aunt and I would really love to see you."

There was a pause as he waited for a reply.

"Or...just come down when you're ready."

Peter heard him turn away and lumber down the stairs.

***

He didn't know what time it was, he just knew that is was dark outside and had been for a while, and he knew that he was starving.

He was hungry enough that his stomach coaxed him out of his bed and to brave the germ-infested carpet and the door that he could stub his toe on and the stairs that he could fall down and break something like his neck. The journey was slow and anxiety-filled. Every step took more courage than Peter thought he could muster, but he found it somewhere in him to reach the kitchen.

The kitchen had its own issues, like possibly catching on fire or flooding or electrocuting him or stabbing him. But it also held so many wonders. Like white bread and grain bread and milk and tomato juice and meatloaf and left over roast and frozen fish and cucumbers and bananas and apples and grapes and mustard and mayonnaise and strawberry jelly and pancake mix and, and, and--

Peter had to swallow before spit ran down his chin. He'd never felt like this in his entire life.

He didn't realize, but he was holding open the refrigerator door, and the light was pouring out into the dark kitchen. He barely registered himself thinking _what first? What first? What first?_ as he looked into the fridge.

_Does it matter what's first? I'm going to eat it all!_

He felt crazed, like a maniac, but he couldn't help himself grabbing the saran wrapped plate of meatloaf and the day old mac & cheese beside it and the bag of unwashed grapes and one of his aunt's protein shakes that she was always trying to make him and his uncle drink. It didn't matter that the fridge door closed, he'd just open it again when he was done eating this. And then he'd eat more, and then even more; hopefully, he'd eat more after that too.

***

Peter stopped chewing his mouthful of dry cereal and looked up. He heard a shuffle sound from across the living room. A cold sweat broke out along his forehead and back as he began to crouch down.

"Peter? Is that you?" Uncle Ben squinted at him through the dark.

Peter relaxed only to finally take a look around himself. His corner of the kitchen was littered with empty Tupperware and dirty dishes, granola wrappers and empty fruit cartons, and even an empty pie container.

The light was flicked on, and Peter was momentarily blinded, blinking dazedly at the outline of his uncle.

"Jesus Christ," he heard.

Peter shrunk sheepishly under his uncle's surprised gaze. "I'm sorry."

There was a stretch of silence as Uncle Ben kept staring, and Peter kept feeling like he was three inches tall. "I'm really sorry, Uncle Ben. I dunno--I dunno what's happening right now. I--"

"It's alright," he told Peter as if he regularly walked in on his nephew during the middle of the night with half the fridge strewn around him. "You haven't eaten all day, and you're sick. I'm sure you're hungry."

"I--I've never been this sick," Peter stuttered as Uncle Ben moved beside him and put an arm around Peter, gently pushing him out of the kitchen. "I dunno--"

"Let's get you back to bed, we don't want May to wake up," Uncle Ben supported him up the stairs.

Peter agreed and fell silent, letting his uncle guide him back to the bedroom and tuck him into bed as best as he could.

"Get some sleep, Peter."

Peter nodded, and the faint light streaming through the doorway was cut off as the door closed.

***

His alarm went off, loud as day, and Peter jumped up and grabbed his phone, fumbling with it and turned off the alarm.

Sun was pouring in through the window that he'd accidentally left open last night, and a beautiful breeze tousled his hair. He felt great.

He picked up his glasses and settled them onto the bridge of his nose, blinking. He looked quizzically at his phone and tried to read the blurred numbers. He pulled his glasses off and read the numbers again, clear as day. He put the glasses on; blurry. He took them off; perfect 20/20, maybe even better.

"Weird," Peter muttered to himself, setting his glasses back on his table.

He slid open the lock screen on his phone to read the messages he'd ignored yesterday.

 _Wade_  
_Where're you at?_

 _Wade_  
_Am I going to have to eat lunch alone?_

 _Wade_  
_Why didn't you come to school? You're window is open, I know you're at home_

 _Wade_  
_That sounded weird_

And there was one more, from Harry.

 _Harry_  
_WW just asked me where you're at. Please tell him you're sick. I don't want him to ask me again._

Peter sighed. He felt bad for both of them. It was a poor move on his part not to tell either of his friends that he'd been sick, although Harry already knew that was the only reason he'd miss school. Guilt still ate at him though, at the thought of Wade waiting for him in front of his yard so they could walk to school, of him looking around the cafeteria for him, and the idea of Harry having to sit alone in AP Bio. He knew the two didn't get along, Proper Harry Osborn, as Wade called him, and Wild Wade Wilson, as Wade also referred to himself, were only ever seen together when Peter was there, so he supposed there were some small mercies for the pair yesterday; at least they only had to see each other once.

 **Peter**  
**Sorry. Talk about it on the way to school?**

Peter sent the message to Wade before typing out another for Harry.

 **Peter**  
**Glad you missed me.**

Peter tossed his phone on the bed and closed his curtains to change his clothes.

***

He was still seeing dust motes and every distinct blade of grass and every flea on the dogs that walked by him on the sidewalk. But he still felt brilliant, a wonderful contrast from the fear from yesterday, and he couldn't help the hint of a smile that stayed plastered on his face.

"So what was up with yesterday?" Wade asked him as they walked together. Or, rather, Wade walked and Peter rode his skateboard very, very slowly.

"This is gonna sound really weird," Peter told him. "But on the Biology trip, I think one of their experiment spiders took a ride on my shirt and sort of came home with me."

Wade raised his eyebrows. "You _stole_ an Oscorp spider? They have spiders?"

"I didn't steal it, I didn't even know I had it," he stressed.

"Stealing already? I've taught you well."

"Seriously, Wade!" Peter snapped, but he wasn't angry. "Anyway, I guess the spider bit me, and I had a really bad reaction to it. I got pretty sick. That's why I wasn't at school."

"Sooo..." Wade looked pointedly at him. "Where is the spider? And what are you gonna do with it? Tell me you're not gonna give it back, I bet it's work a metric shit ton. Especially if you hold it for ransom against Oscorp or something."

Peter stopped his skateboard to cross the road. "It's in a jar I found from the kitchen. And I'm not going to give it back or sell it or demand ransom. I'm keeping it. It's cool. And I'll be able to show my grand-kids one day that I stole a spider from Oscorp."

Wade sighed. "Only a nerd like you'd want to keep a spider that made you so sick you couldn't come to school."

"Oh!" Peter grinned. "That reminds me. Flash said something to me during the field trip that I think you might like. That is, if you like your only friend being called a twink."

Wade opened his mouth and paused, eyes widening. "He called you a twink?"

"Yep," he popped the 'p'.

Wade cackled. "I love it! That's great! Thanks for sharin', Petey!"

They approached Midtown High laughing loudly, Peter hopping off his skateboard before a teacher snapped at him.

The laughter lulled, and Wade said, "Can I start calling you that? 'Twink?' I think it really fits." And then they were howling again, Wade smacking Peter's shoulder every time he doubled over, and Peter clenched at his sides. "He's gonna start calling you--ha! He's gonna call you a Nancy Boy next! I swear to God, I'll piss myself if he does! I really will! Right in the school hallway!"

Tears were starting to leak out of Peter's eyes, and the other students parted around them, giving them odd looks. Peter didn't really care, it didn't really bother him. There was something about Wade that made Peter not care one ounce about what anyone else thought when they were having fun.

But, and Peter should have known, if he was having a good morning, it could only get worse from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happens next chapter? O.o Peter explores more of his Spidey power and maybe gets in trouble...
> 
>  
> 
> Also here is an aesthetic I made for Wade for this specific fic:
> 
> https://tears-of-a-titan.tumblr.com/post/174895433361/wade-wilsons-aesthetic-from-my-fic-saving-wade
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading this chapter! I really appreciate all the comments, kudos, and support from you guys!


	4. Chapter Four: Side Effects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to get updates on when I post my chapters, you can follow me on tumblr: https://tears-of-a-titan.tumblr.com/ Beware though, I just shit post on that account, but I do always post my new chapters there immediately.

"You good, Peter?" a voice whispered close to him.

Peter started and looked over at his seat partner, Harry Osborn. Harry was tall and well-dressed for a boy in high school; he had smart eyes and a warm smile and was the kind of person your parents' dreamed you would marry. He looked like the kind of kid who went to tennis state championships and shook adults' hands, which he was. But Peter had also seen him at what Harry would consider his worst. He'd been there to laugh when Harry had tried to ride Peter's skateboard without knowing how to and had ran into a street pole; he'd been there when Harry had told Peter to lift him up into a tree, and Peter had consequently dropped him and bruised Harry's tailbone for months; and he'd been there when Harry would call and say he wasn't crying, but he and his father had just had a talk, and he couldn't come over to Peter's for dinner. He was Peter's only childhood friend, and he was Harry's.

"Yeah," Peter whispered back. It was proving difficult to focus in class when he was constantly being distracted by other odd noises that he'd never noticed before. He could hear the girl three rows behind him filing her nails under the desk, could hear the tapping of a boy's fingers on a phone two rows to his left, the rustling of a paper gum wrapper from a kid near the classroom door. The noises were beginning to give him a headache, and he wanted desperately to stop hearing them. He hoped the side effects of the spider bite would be gone soon.

"You look a little pale," Harry continued, ignoring the teacher assigning them three pages of questions from their biology textbooks. "Are you sure you're not still sick?"

Peter scratched down the assigned book pages in his binder. "I'm fine, just a headache."

Harry conceded and leaned back as the class began to back up their belongings. "Alright, but be careful. You must've been really sick to miss school. I don't want you to miss class again. Do you know how painful it is to complete a lab on animal behavior without you?"

Peter laughed, standing and hitching his backpack on his shoulders. "What are you, my mother? I'm sure you managed without me. It was just a day."

"Well, since you don't have one, someone has to be," he countered, grinning. Peter flipped him off good-naturedly as the bell rang. Only Harry was allowed to make 'mother' jokes with Peter. "But seriously," he continued to Peter as they fought the swarm of students to the cafeteria. "Next time your sick, tell us. Or at least tell Wade Wilson. I hate when he talks to me when you're not here; it's like he thinks I locked you up or some shit."

Peter brushed the side of his face near his ear nonchalantly, trying to ignore the sounds of clattering plastic silverware that he shouldn't be able to hear. "Sorry. But it couldn't have been terrible, I mean, you guys see a lot more of each other when I'm here. It's not like you saw him more than once yesterday."

"I don't like to see him more than I have to," Harry grumbled. "And I wouldn't have had to see him at all if you'd just told us you were sick."

"Alright, alright," he answered, dragging the words out in complaint.

Harry seemed satisfied with Peter's response and moved on to another subject. "Did you bring your lunch today or are you buying--"

There was a sudden shout from the other side of the cafeteria and his peers were crowding in around a table, laughing and throwing up fists with loud cheers. He could hear Flash's voice from the mix, loud and triumphant from the center of the crowd's chant of, "eat it, eat it!"

He turned back to Harry who, by the look he was giving Peter, could also hear Flash's voice.

"Don't do it, Peter," Harry warned him. "You always get beat up."

"We'll just watch," Peter told him quickly before turning towards the crowd.

" 'Just watch,' " he heard Harry muttered behind him, but his friend followed him into the throngs of people.

Peter pushed carefully through his classmates, trying to reach the front of the circle. The laughing was louder than he could remember it being before, and he was being jostled by the movement of other students trying to watch the spectacle, their elbows in his side and voices ringing; his headache was starting to split into him.

"We should call a teacher," Harry groused as they found the front of the crowd and watched Flash Thompson hold a boy upside down over the table with a mean grin on his face. He pushed the boy's face into a food tray with the cafeteria's green beans, the ones Peter knew by experience were always sold expired. He swallowed nervously.

"Eat your vegetables, Gordon," Flash crowed, pushing the boy's face further into the green beans. "C'mon!"

He heard Harry's warning of, "Peter." But Peter was already determined and set in what he was going to do.

"Don't eat it, Gordon," Peter ignored Flash and looked at the boy. Gordon didn't say anything as he watched Peter. "C'mon, put him down."

Flash stopped his ministrations at Peter's voice, and he regarded him with malicious eyes. "What'd you say, Parker?"

"I said," he responded apprehensively. "Put him down."

Flash paused a moment longer before backing away from the table, looking like he was considering his words, and then began shoving Gordon's face back into the food. "C'mon, man," Peter said in between the chants of "eat it! eat it!" "Put him down, Flash. Don't eat it, Gordon."

"Seriously, Parker?" Flash laughed rudely and focused his attention on the boy in his arms.

"Put him down," but his words seemed lost on Flash. Peter took a deep breath and said loudly. "Eugene."

The cheering stopped abruptly and Flash's movements came to a halt. There was a collective gasp from the crowd, a few "oooh"s went around from the students who felt the beginnings of a fight, and a groan from Harry. Flash dropped Gordon to the ground unceremoniously, and Peter took a step forward towards Gordon, but, suddenly, he was reeling back and knocking into someone who grabbed his shoulders and righted him. A pain blossomed dully in Peter's stomach, but he didn't double over. In fact, he could still breathe fine. Had Flash really punched him? But the hands that had helped him stay upright were gone, and he watched Wade Wilson leap into the middle of the crowd and sock Flash across the face with a hiss of, "fucking piece of shit!" There was a loud sound of surprise from the spectators and a cheer.

Peter coughed and snapped, "Wade! Wade, stop!"

Wade whipped his head around to stare at Peter in angry astonishment as Flash staggered behind him. "What do you mean, 'stop'?! He just had Princess Peach over there--" he pointed at Gordon who was pushing himself off the floor. "--face fuckin' green beans, and then nails you into next Christmas--"

Peter quickly approached him. "I'm fine, Gordon's fine, stop--"

He grabbed Wade and yanked him down, both of them crouching on the cafeteria floor, and Peter watched Flash's fist fly through the air above Wade's head, Peter standing quickly when Flash's arm disappeared. Wade was still on the floor, looking up at Peter with his mouth open and speechless for the first time that Peter can remember. The crowd had quieted, but an abrupt cheer had them roused again.

"Um," Peter told Wade, baffled. He hadn't known Flash's fist was coming, barely saw it all, but he had dodged and helped Wade dodge it. Usually, at this point, Peter was on the floor waiting for someone to take him to the nurse while Wade stocked up on detention hours.

He turned towards Flash, his hands in front of him in a placating gesture, but another hand was flying at his face. He bent back on instinct, doing what his body told him to do with no time to think about it. Flash's fist whistled in the air above him before it retracted, and Peter stood upright again.

The crowd whooped and clapped, and he caught the sound of a happy shriek, "Peter!"

He found Betty Brant grinning at him from the inside the mass of students, her eyes shining and hand in the air. She shouted his name again, and their classmates joined her, a medley of sounds fighting each other, shouting his name and shouting Flash's name; laughter and gasps; clapping and stomping.

Peter almost missed Flash's uppercut, but he dodged to the side, stepping closer to Wade, who had moved to stand but was bent at the knees and watching the fight warily like he was expecting to move into action at any moment. Peter gave him a nervous grin, but Wade scowled back at him. Confused, Peter's senses expanded around him again, moving passed Flash's fists and watched a teacher grab onto Wade and yank him away from the fight. He didn't argue or challenge the teacher, but he glared at Flash as two teachers held onto the larger student, trying to wrangle him into submission.

"Fuck you Peter Parker!" he shouted, face red as the teachers held fast to his arms. "You freak!"

"Parker," Peter turned around to find a teacher holding onto his arm too, but just the one, as if he expected Peter to be more reasonable. Peter was happy to comply. The sooner he was away from the clutter of students and the din of the cafeteria, the sooner his headache was gone and the sooner he could take time to understand what was happening to him; the nurse's office sounded like a blessing.

He was led out of the cafeteria with a hand on his back with Wade and Gordon, both as cooperative as Peter, through the empty hallways. Students peaked their heads out of their classrooms, watching them pass and mumbling to each other, some taking pictures or photos; Gordon still had green beans plastered to his face.

Eventually, they were left to the nurse's bidding, and, after asserting that no one was seriously injured and Gordon wasn't covered in food, their parents were called to pick them up. Maybe it was the teachers' way of trying to help them avoid humiliation and their classmates, at least in Gordon's case. Maybe, and very likely, at least for Wade, it was a breath of air while they figured out what punishment to dole out this time. Peter wasn't particularly sure where he fit, though he suspected it was somewhere in the former, which was the treatment he was used to. But this time, he wasn't particularly embarrassed about anything; in fact, he sort of felt cool. No one else had ever one-upped Flash like that before.

He was also mystified by the drastic change in his ability. It was cool for sure, the kind of thing younger children would dream about: suddenly obtaining the strength to fight back your bullies. But Peter knew that sort of thing wasn't possible unless you had some semblance of skill or knew how to be fight. Peter was clumsy and weak and had never taken a boxing lesson in his life. Logically, he shouldn't have done what he had.

Wade seemed to have been on the same page, because he was eyeing Peter curiously and hadn't said a word about it save for snide remarks about Flash or being sent home. Peter knew Wade was thinking when he wasn't speaking about what everyone else was talking about or what they would be. 

Briefly, Peter hoped it wouldn't scare his friend away but was quickly reminded by watching Wade examine his own knuckles that it would be a challenge to scare him away. Wade was never scared.

There was a knock on the nurse's door, pulling Peter out of his thoughts. His uncle appeared, looking around the room as if in search of an authority figure. His eyes landed on the nurse and announced, "I'm Peter Parker's probation officer."

Peter groaned inwardly and picked himself off the cot, meeting the nurse's confused and searching look. "This is my uncle Ben."

"Yeah, I've come to pick up this law offender," Uncle Ben grinned and inspected Wade, who was leaning back in his chair. "You too, then, huh?"

Wade smirked back. "Couldn't help it."

"Yeah, well, we've all been young and stupid before," he responded cheerily before looking back at Peter. "Are you ready? Do you have your skateboard? May would love to never see it come home again, so we have to make sure you still got it."

"Nah, it's in my locker," Peter told him, adjusting his backpack on his shoulders. "I'll pick it up tomorrow."

"You sure? You don't need anything else from your locker?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure," he was dipping his head and looking around them furtively, embarrassed by his uncle. He'd just pretty much saved a kid from eating expired green beans and had sort of beat up his old bully. He wished his uncle wouldn't do this in front of his two classmates. He turned to look at them and said, "Bye Gordon, by Wade. See you guys tomorrow."

He left the nurse's office, making sure his uncle followed and didn't say anything else silly to them that might make Peter look more like a loser than he was.

When they were walking through the parking lot, Uncle Ben spoke again. "You don't look as bad as usual. Was the fight different?"

Peter weighed his words. He wasn't certain that he wanted his uncle to know yet what he did. What if he couldn't do it again? "I just didn't get hit this time. I mean, I did, in the stomach, but it wasn't bad. And it was just once."

"He didn't get to your face?"

"Nah, I guess I might be getting a little faster," he said vaguely.

"Well, that's good," his uncle nodded. "Don't need you getting hurt more than you usually do. Might give your Aunt May's heart a rest, for once."

Peter laughed and climbed into his uncle's car. They bickered good-naturedly and discussed how to convince Aunt May to let them go out for dinner instead of cooking later that evening all through the drive, and Peter almost forgot about the fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't noticed, I've decided to split this fic up into parts. So these chapters have all been a part of Part One, and Part Two will be announced next to the chapter that starts that part (such as 'Part Two - Chapter [insert number]'). Thanks for accommodating any changes I have made or will probably continue to make to this fic, haha! I really appreciate your guys' support! It makes me so happy!
> 
> . . .
> 
> If you haven't seen yet, I've started another spideypool fic called The Proposal: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14935652/chapters/34602950  
> You guys should go check it out 0_0


	5. Chapter Five: RP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good to see you guys after so long...!
> 
> Just a reminder that if you guys ever notice any mistakes I make, grammatical or otherwise, don't be afraid of saying something! I get so embarrassed making mistakes, I'll want to fix it as soon as possible!

"Peter!" an sudden hiss made him turn towards his opened window.

Peter crawled across his bed and shimmied off, standing in front of the window. There was a small alleyway, wet with rain and gutter runoff between their two houses, just enough space to keep two rowdy boys from jumping across each other's houses, but not enough room to keep them from making friends. Peter looked across the way, where Wade had pulled his creaky, wooden desk chair to the windowsill and was sitting in it, arms leaning against the ledge and looking over at him expectantly. Peter smiled faintly and balanced himself on his own windowsill, one leg against the side of the window, the other planted firmly on his carpet.

He'd been expecting this. He'd been half-excited and half-dreading their talk, but now he was mostly anxious. He wasn't certain what he was nervous over; wasn't sure if he was afraid of one of his only friends leaving because Peter could fend for himself now; if it was worry over acceptance; concern about someone being afraid of him. Peter was, however, certain that all those ideas were ridiculous, especially when it came to Wade Wilson, who wouldn't know danger if it knocked him upside the head and was probably the _only_ person who would never leave Peter over something as weird and completely random as suddenly gaining control over his body. Weird, that's what it was. And if Wade liked anything, he liked weird.

"Sorry, can't go outside today," Wade briefed him, like Peter ever needed a reason for why Wade was talking to him using means unusual to anyone else. Peter didn't. This wasn't unusual to them. "But _wow_ , man. What the hard fuck happened during lunch?"

He always went in fast, Peter thought dryly. Fast and hard, just trying to get out of it whatever he could. Wade didn't like wasting time. It would almost be off-putting, if it wasn't for Wade's face, peering at him from his own open window, looking for all the world as if he really wanted to know, with his small, open-mouth grin and thumb paused over his bottom lip and eyes excitable and eager, eyebrows raised in anticipation. And, for all the bars and lines drawn that told him never to give in to Wade Wilson, danger-extraordinaire, college-bound crusher, trouble maker, and, frankly, heartbreaker, Peter knew he would tell him everything; maybe not right now, maybe not even in a week, but one day, Peter would tell Wade every stupid little thing that ever happened to him, because Peter wanted him to know, and Wade looked like he did.

But right now, it was about the ridiculously stupid and really cool thing he'd done during lunch block.

So Peter tried his best to tell him what happened, mostly without understanding it himself. It was just him rambling about the rush and instinct and the how-he-had-no-idea-how-he-did-it dash through his system. And Wade watched and laughed and made horribly inappropriate comments while they talked their evening out from their bedrooms, the only thing between them the drizzling of an approaching thunderstorm.

Peter thought he probably never would have left if his uncle hadn't called him downstairs to help with the leaking roof.

He should never have left.

***

Wade didn't show up to school for one, two, three days. It felt like longer.

Peter was certain Harry would've danced, if he wasn't so concerned about Peter being concerned. It was almost contradictory; like Harry worrying over Peter worrying over Wade was just Harry second-hand worrying over Wade. Peter, being caught in the middle, as it were, found it ridiculously horrible and tiring. It was always trying to figure out the right thing to text Wade, then trying to figure out if he shouldn't text him, then deciding if he should call him or not, wondering if skipping school would be worth it just to knock on Wade's door and maybe bust it down and then accidentally voicing that thought out loud, and then telling Harry, no, he wasn't really going to skip school for something so dumb, and no, he probably couldn't even bust a door down if he wanted to, didn't Harry know who Peter was?

It was just worry and frustration and trying to be distracted from it all and trying to distract someone else from being worried about him. Peter hated it even worse when the vague idea crept over him that he knew why Wade wasn't there. Then the dreadful wishing that he was wrong and cursing because if it wasn't what he thought it was, then what was it?

Peter wasn't an idiot.

He just wanted it to not be what he thought it was.

***

Afternoon one watched Peter running through the torrential downpour, holding his backpack tightly to his chest, praying to everything that his camera wasn't slick wet with rain water. His eyes darted over Wade's front door before barreling through his own, his only hope was the closed window upstairs.

Afternoon two discovered Peter glancing between the cold, gray clouds above him and the quiet phone in his hand, standing in his driveway. Several text messages and no response. Peter headed inside.

Afternoon three found Peter on Wade's doorstep, sweating and breath short. Shuffling his feet, a second later standing stock-still. He raised his arm, fist balled; lowered it; breathed deep; raised it again; knocked. No answer. Peter turned on the spot and almost shouted five different swear words at the top of his lungs before remembering he was on someone else's porch, and his aunt and uncle were only a few yards away, the protection of a brick wall probably not enough to shield them from his angry and, plainly, terrified shouting.

 _Shit, fuck, asshat, bitch, damnit_ , he cursed inwardly. For all he knew, he could've just lit a fire under Wade's ass. Peter could've gotten him in serious trouble for showing up uninvited and unwanted. _Goddamnit!_

It's not like Peter knew the protocol for missing-friend-who-might-be-held-captive-in-his-own-home. There was no manual for my-next-door-neighbor-has-a-crazy-uncle-figure-and-I-don't-know-what-to-do. Peter wasn't an idiot, even if Wade hardly ever told him anything important. He could read between the lines well enough.

He turned away from the door and crossed the lawn to his own house, arms wrapped around himself tight.

Peter wasn't an idiot.

But he didn't know what to do.

***

 The basement was a mess. A two-inches-of-standing-water mess.

"A pipe probably burst during the rain," Peter told his uncle, standing barefoot in the middle of the water, holding a box of odds and ends Uncle Ben wanted to save from the flood.

"I'll take your word for it," Uncle Ben responded, cheerfully enough. He was carrying his own box, his old bowling trophies, up the stairs. "Make sure to grab anything else you think is useful before you come back upstairs."

Peter nodded morosely even though he knew his uncle wouldn't be able to see it. He walked around the edges of the basement, searching for anything that might useful or worth saving. Most of it was old kitchen chairs they couldn't sell or clothes that had needed hemmed but had long been forgotten about. He paused and set his cardboard box on top of the washer machine, picking up a box of ornaments. Examining it, but considering the save pointless, Aunt May loved buying new decorations whenever she could, Peter set it aside. Underneath it, he caught sight of leather and carefully picked it up, holding it to the light. It was a briefcase. _Anything leather is probably worth saving_ , Peter thought, placing it into his box and resuming his inventory.

Finding nothing else save for Uncle Ben's running shoes that he knew Aunt May would be happy about, he took to the creaky, wooden stairs, his descent gloomy and slow. Quietly, he set the box on the dining table, half-listening to his aunt and uncle bicker about the bowling trophies.

"Where are you going to put them, Ben?" Aunt May was saying, taking a knife to some tomatoes. Peter had been rescued from helping her cook dinner only to be tasked with clearing the basement.

"I dunno, under the bed," Uncle Ben huffed. "They're my bowling trophies. What do you think, Peter? I should keep...oh my."

Peter was yanked out of his grieving by Uncle Ben's face, shocked and...concerned. He wasn't looking at Peter, but at what was peeking out of the box. Peter looked down at the box. Was it the running shoes? He glanced back up to see Aunt May turned to watch him, her hand over her mouth and cutting board abandoned. Obviously, Peter was supposed to be worried over something too, but there was nothing here but some bits of tinkering metal, a leather briefcase, and running shoes.

A leather briefcase.

Why did they own a briefcase? No one here had a posh job like that.

Peter glance back at his aunt and uncle before carefully pulling the briefcase out; they watched him, eyes more and more troubled as he did. So this was what he was supposed to be looking at. He scanned the briefcase, curious and uneasy. It was just an old leather bag with a little metal latch labelled ' _RP_ '. Peter's finger's ghosted over the engravings. ' _RP_ '...

_"We have to go, Peter," a man bent down to hug him, whispering in his ear. Rain was lashing at them from the open door. A woman was sobbing._

_"He has a little nightlight," the woman was saying eagerly, like she had never said anything else in her life. Or that she wouldn't be saying anything else ever again. "And he doesn't like crust on his_ _sandwiches. His favorite toy is his little Voltron action figure..."_

_But her words were being eaten up in the rain, and her hair was plaster to her face. She kept touching a soaked tissue to her eyes. Peter kept wishing that she would stop._

_The man turned away like he was ripping himself from Peter, and a briefcase swung from his hand as he pressed into his brother's chest and took the woman by the shoulders, hurrying into the rain._

There was a crack of thunder outside, shaking their small, two story house, and something burning hot and wet dripped down Peter's cheek. He touched it, and then wiped it away. He wasn't going to cry. He'd stopped crying about it years ago. But he couldn't look at his aunt or uncle, keeping his eyes fixed on the briefcase. He didn't want to look at anything else. If he did, he might really cry. The path left on his cheek felt like a burned brand on his face.

"Peter..." he heard Uncle Ben start to say softly. But Peter wasn't sure he could talk, not yet. He didn't want to hear anyone talk, either. So he took the briefcase and calmly, without looking at anything but the floor, walked upstairs and shut his door. But kneeling on the ground with the bag in front of him, he could still hear them talking.

"I thought you said you hid it!" Aunt May hissed.

"I did!" was the response. "I forgot I put it there! I wouldn't have had him help if I'd known!"

"If you'd've known!" she snapped back. "He was already upset, what with his friend not at school! You know how worrying gets at him!"

"How was I supposed to know this is the sort of response he'd have to the briefcase? And besides, he's old enough now!"

"Maybe because the man who owned that is dead!" Aunt May's voice was shrill.

There was silence after that, short, but long enough that Peter realized their argument was close to a whisper. He'd still heard everything.

It was Aunt May who spoke again. "You're going to have to talk to him."

Uncle Ben was sighing. "I know. Just...let's give him a little time. A few hours."

Peter glanced down at the briefcase, limp and empty on his floor. He stared hard at the metal letters.

_Richard Paker._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeet to all this drama
> 
> . . .
> 
> Sorry for being absent for so long on this fic, I'm taking a summer class rn, and it's whooping my ass, so I haven't gotten around to writing much of anything for any fic. Updates on Saving Wade Wilson will be a lot slower than anticipated, but I'll pick it back up with weekily-ish updates as soon as my class is over.
> 
> . . .
> 
> Also, big thanks to all of you guys! I'm really out here dying from all your support and interest in this fic! (ಥ﹏ಥ)


End file.
